Occupational Hazards
by Saharas
Summary: War takes its toll on the best of us- even Optimus Prime. So when a money-obsessed, cynical secretary is caught trespassing on Diego Garcia, NEST thinks it's a perfect distraction from his memories. Meanwhile, Starscream unveils his latest scheme...


**My first Transformers fic.** **This idea has been long in coming, and I can only hope that the third movie doesn't completely throw it out of whack. But, I figured I might as well get started with what I have and move on from there.**

**Also, it has an OC. Note that this is an attempt to center a story around A GENUINELY FLAWED, REALISTIC PERSON. Humanity in its imperfection is far more interesting to me than a generic Mary-Sue, but I gather that most people shirk from the idea of an OC altogether. That said, I welcome critique into her character as she is introduced, but the flames may take a hitchhike. No like, no read.**

**Transformers and its characters belong to Hasbro. Additional characters and this story belong to me.**

**Please enjoy. **

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><p>He heard it before he felt it.<p>

The incessant squeal of metal on metal, the bellow of engines as he was torn into. The chain links drove deep into circuitry and the saw roared in protest. Every inch of his frame vibrated with the impact.

Alarms rang out in his head, but he'd long since tuned them out- experience had taught him to understand his limits far better by mere memory than the monotonous ramble of a processor. So long as his limbs moved and his spark pulsed, it would take more than a measly _chainsaw_ to do him in, with or without Energon supplements.

He whirled his battered body in a circle, unsheathing one of his swords in the process and using the momentum to slice Whiplash's saw in two. His enemy let out a howl of pain and fury at the loss of his limb. Another twist and his legs were mangled.

His opponent thus crippled, Optimus swiftly dug into the red Decepticon's chest and grasped his main Energon line.

"Goodbye." was all he could manage before severing the cable with a decisive yank. The surge of the broken circuit left his hand's sensors numb, and the now lifeless corpse crumpled to the pavement like a burning piece of paper.

Pools of Energon stained the cracked pavement beneath his feet. They would be the only reminder of his people; a dying race, compelled to plague the universe with one final war.

His spark clenched abruptly and he almost fell, surprised at the sudden agony the thought gave him.

_Are we no more than this?_

The quiet was short-lived. Within seconds a pair of enemies swung from around two buildings, fixed on him with such hatred and rage it was almost tangible.

There he stood, amongst the dislodged beams and glassy shrapnel of the human city. Nearby, the sounds of his comrades unleashing their prowess on unsuspecting foes, a symphony of screams and gunfire. Roars. Shrieks. A weary, miserable sigh.

And then it all began again.

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><p>Ironhide heaved an echoing grunt before dragging another mechanical body into one of N.E.S.T's cargo carriers.<p>

"What a bunch of-" he snarled, pausing to slam the twin doors, "-pathetic little _weaklings._"

"You won't see me complainin'." Eppes replied with a relieved sigh, sitting on a fallen beam.

Ironhide snorted at that but said nothing, turning instead to survey what remained of the three city blocks. There wouldn't be much to salvage- between Cloudripper's blasted missiles and his own cannons, what remained was little more than rubble.

'Course, there wasn't much left of Cloudripper, either.

His jaw brackets tightened at the injured humans he saw tended to by their fellows, under Ratchet's watchful eye. He was never much for sentimentality, but he would never accept the injustice of these tiny beings flinging themselves into the hail of Decepticon fire. And for what? Megatron's ego?

"Ratchet," Ironhide gingerly avoided the stretchers and medical vehicles as he made his way to his friend, bent over a particularly damaged soldier, "where are Bumblebee and Sideswipe?"

"Escorting civilians to the safety zones." Ratchet answered, not looking up. "There were many humans trapped under fallen constructs- they were fortunate enough not to be seriously injured. We, however, were not so lucky."

He nodded to the paramedic and sent him off, performing countless simultaneous scans on the others. If all went well, they would have no following casualties.

"Where do all these fraggin' 'Cons come from?" Ironhide rumbled angrily. "There are at least three times as many than we thought survived the evacuation of Cybertron."

"I suppose they're mass-assembling them." Ratchet replied with a hint of revulsion. "Their Energon levels are heavily diluted- might as well be running on fossil fuels."

"Explains why they're so slaggin' easy to kill." Ironhide said, grimacing. Mass-assembly was a disgusting, evil way to produce Cybertronians; taking existing materials, sometimes even from corpses, and feeding the parts into a hive-like machine. What resulted were mindless beasts incapable of individual thought, but they suited Megatron's interests: they required little Energon to function, and obeyed him without question.

It was a slap in the face of everything Cybertron had stood for.

Ratchet finally lifted himself to his full height and quickly skimmed the contents of his readings. Everything appeared to be normal, except…

"Where's Optimus?" Ratchet suddenly demanded, making Ironhide jump.

Ironhide was about to retort that he wasn't Prime's fraggin' keeper, but Ratchet's furious glower and murderous tone convinced him otherwise. Instead he sought out his leader's signal; Ratchet's processors were too occupied to do it quickly. Latching onto the first small pulse, he sped towards its direction, Ratchet on his heels. He had to avoid a few tanks, and could hear Eppes's alarmed questions growing fainter.

It wasn't long before they found him. He was slumped against a toppled building, venting exhaust in shallow pants. His plating was shredded and mangled, no doubt the result of the huge chainsaw lying a few feet away. He gave them a weak, sheepish wave.

Ratchet was on him in moments, snarling in a jumbled mixture of Cybertronian and English while producing five different tools from his arms.

"You stupid, fragging, shameless-"

"I'm sorry Ratchet, but there was really no helping-"

"- short-circuiting, glitching-"

Optimus sighed and let Ratchet berate him, and Ironhide folded his arms.

"I hope the 'Cons look worse than you do, Optimus, 'cause you look like junkyard scrap." He chuckled. "How many did ya off-line? Nine? Ten?"

"Twelve, not including the bomb-drones." Optimus replied, and winced as Ratchet prodded a particularly singed cable. "Bumblebee took out fourteen, by my last count."

"Fourteen! Primus, that's just one less than _me_!" Ironhide growled in disbelief. "Frag, how'd he get so good while watchin' the kid all the time?"

"Maybe," Ratchet murmured, a mischievous smirk on his face, "your _age_ is simply catching up to you."

Optimus exhaled as his two friends bickered good-naturedly, relieved that they hadn't been harmed. Staring at the fresh corpses strewn across the street, it was hard to forget how easily it could have been them. Then, of course, his thoughts turned to less fortunate friends and he had to shake himself from his own memories. It became harder and harder to do every day.

Soon the NEST vehicles showed up to take away the Decepticon bodies, as well as to chew out Optimus for getting so beaten up. Eppes was less irritated than he was worried, as when he arrived Ratchet was burrowing deep into Optimus's blue and red armor, dragging out melted cables and fried circuitry.

Optimus had never looked so bad after a battle in which Megatron wasn't involved. Before Optimus had temporarily off-lined a year ago, NEST had considered him practically invincible. But lately, Optimus seemed to be wearing down. While Eppes knew Optimus was no god, it was hard to watch the depletion of the human soldiers' morale with every battle. Especially now that they were so close to the end of the war- every move the Decepticons made indicated desperation. They threw out dozens of mechs half the Autobots' size, each decreasing in intelligence. But if these 'Cons could injure Optimus, and leave Ironhide and Ratchet unscathed…

Eppes made his decision. He made his way to Optimus and stood before his friend.

"Eppes." Optimus acknowledged him with a respectful nod, but when he noticed Eppes' troubled expression he asked, "Is something wrong?"

"You mean, other than you being spread all over the sidewalk?" Eppes said, trying to sound upbeat, but Optimus winced just the same. He wasn't immune to how bad he looked.

Eppes paused, unsure of how to start. He finally decided to just say it outright, and hope for the best.

"Optimus, I think you should take a…. short leave of absence."

The effect was instantaneous. Optimus nearly jumped up, and Ironhide made a sound of disbelief. Ratchet was silent.

"Eppes," Optimus said, "I cannot simply take a _vacation._ The Decepticons will-"

"Optimus, _look at yourself._" Eppes stood his ground, even in the face of the huge alien robots before him. "Do you honestly think that you're any good to anyone like _this?_"

Optimus could think of no reply. What was there to say?

His frame spoke for him. A hydraulic pump in his arm gave one last, sputtering wheeze before his servo gave out entirely.

After a minute of awkward silence, Ratchet finally said,

"I must agree with Eppes. Your damage is extensive, and your overall energy has been dangerously low as of late. In my personal opinion, a brief period of recovery would be quite beneficial."

Optimus grimaced, and Eppes knew why. Ratchet was the CMO, which meant that "his personal opinion" was just a nice way of throwing down trump in front of other soldiers.

Eppes sighed. "Look, we'll talk it over back at base, when Lennox is around. Just concentrate on getting him fixed up, all right?"

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><p>"God, it's just been too long since we've been out." Sarah Lennox lamented, albeit cheerfully. She sat across from him at their table, dinner nearly finished. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tidy updo, and she wore the blue dress he so adored on her.<p>

Will and his wife were seated at a quiet table near the back of the restaurant. The decor belied the food's expense- crystal chandeliers dangled precariously over each table, matching the glasses and candleholders. It was the sort of place that demanded formal wear, so he'd donned the dark grey suit he'd forgotten he had.

"You can say that again." He agreed, adjusting in his seat. "But, Annabelle's finally old enough for a babysitter. Which, of course, means more time for _us_."

Sarah smiled and he melted. For all the haggling and political crap he'd had to go through to get this week off, it was definitely worth it just to see that look on her face.

Work was absolute nightmare. Galloway- may God, in his infinite mercy, strike him down- had become even more of a whiny pencil-neck, even after his convenient little trip. Luckily, he'd been relegated to the duties of a mere mouthpiece for the President's views, and was probably going to be demoted sooner than he thought. Apparently, the President didn't appreciate his messages being skewed in Galloway's favour.

Until then, they were stuck with him and his demands. Lately, he'd taken to complaining about the amount of paperwork he was left with after each mission, successful or otherwise. Although, he wasn't _entirely_ useless; he was one of the funnier things his fellow soldiers and their "exotic" allies agreed on. A universal standing ground, pun intended.

"It's a shame you can't stay longer." Sarah sighed. "I mean, couldn't they do without you for a while longer?"

"You know I can't, Sarah." Will chided, though he felt exactly the same way… sometimes. There were certainly moments where he considered retiring from the military altogether, so he could spend more time with his family... but then, he also knew that his job kept his family safe. As well, war had a way of leaking into other facets of your life. Even now, as deliriously happy as he was to be with his family, he couldn't help but feel vulnerable. Unarmed and without the assistance of his allies, they could be attacked at any moment, and he would be helpless. The thought made him fidgety, and he toyed with a loose thread on his suit.

"I know, it's just-"

She was interrupted by a sudden, indignant yelp from a table two seats over. They both turned and saw a young woman, no older than thirty, holding an empty glass over the wet remains of her companion's suit. She looked positively livid, and glared down at the man over a pair of sharp-rimmed glasses.

Will barely managed to catch her just-audible hiss.

"I'll not be used by some playboy lawyer to make a quick buck!"

The woman whipped out a leather wallet and slammed down a few bills before storming out, leaving the drenched man stunned in his seat.

The restaurant erupted into poorly stifled murmurs. Will and Sarah were no exception.

"I wonder what happened?" Sarah whispered, turning back to Will.

"I have no idea." Will replied, watching the man slowly rise from his seat, motioning for the check. His trained eyes caught on a small, black box that the gentleman casually pocketed.

Then Will looked back to his beautiful wife and decided it didn't matter. They'd probably never see those two people ever again, and he had a vacation to enjoy.

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><p><strong>Reviews and critique are appreciated. Take flames elsewhere.<strong>


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